


eight, eighteen, eighty

by teacass (Fushigi)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Anniversary, Canon Compliant, First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, Men of Letters Bunker
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-18
Updated: 2016-09-18
Packaged: 2018-08-15 18:49:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8068705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fushigi/pseuds/teacass
Summary: He tries to go back to sleep, but something keeps him up — a curious melancholy, a soft kind of heartache at the back of his mind.--Happy anniversary <3





	

With the world finally free of any imminent danger, the life in the bunker slows down.

Sometimes, Dean likes to sleep in. He spends forever disentangling himself from the covers and getting out of bed, then takes long, long showers, relishing in the hot water. He doesn’t need to hurry if there’s no case waiting for them — so he prolongs everything he can.

He takes particular care with making breakfast. The coffee is usually ready when he wakes up, with Sam awake since the sunrise and enjoying his morning jog. On some days, when Dean enters the bunker kitchen, his mom will be there, too.

_His mom._

Dean hugs her every morning now. He buries his face in her hair and wraps her up in his arms because she is _so small_ now, compared to what he remembers from his childhood. His mom smells like the soap he and Sam bought her and like the coffee she likes to drink.

Dean whispers, ‘Hi, mom,’ and wants to cry and laugh and burst with love at the same time when she responds with a smile or a kiss to his cheek.

They usually enjoy breakfast together — with Sam back from his run and Cas rumpled and sleepy and healthy in the chair right next to Dean. Mary will talk with Sam for hours and ask Cas curious questions and just _look at Dean_ in that weird way — like she’s sad and happy and overwhelmed at the same time. 

He kind of gets it, really.

  


On Sunday, Dean wakes up early. He tries to go back to sleep, but something keeps him up — a curious melancholy, a soft kind of heartache at the back of his mind. He gets up, takes a shower, gets dressed. The feelings are still there, even half an hour later, so he pads to the kitchen to wash them away with fresh coffee and pancakes.

Cas is sitting at the table, deep in thought, an empty mug in his hands.

“Hi, Cas,” Dean murmurs. “Morning.”

Cas looks up at him, face calm. “Hello, Dean.”

Dean smiles as he passes him. He lets his hand oh-so-casually brush against Cas’ shoulder, a quiet reminder for both of them that they’re okay, alive, still there. They’re doing this a lot lately — those light touches, lingering gazes, tiny smiles. Of course, they’ve been doing it practically forever, since they first met all those years ago, but now it somehow feels different. More deliberate, maybe.

“Can’t sleep?” Dean asks with his back turned to Cas as he pours coffee into his mug.

“Actually, yes,” Cas says.

“Huh, me too. Weird,” he says and sits beside Cas.

“Is it?” 

Dean looks at him and, of course, Cas is already looking back, too. “What?”

Cas’ face is doing something weird, like he’s fighting a smile while his eyes are sad and blue and fond. There’s a nice light tan on his nose and cheeks from spending all that time outside looking at trees or birds or whatever Cas likes looking at.

Right now he seems to like looking at Dean very much.

“Do you know what today is?” he asks.

Dean squints. “Um. Sunday.” 

The almost-there smile slips off Cas’ face. “It’s September the eighteenth.”

Dean racks his brain. Is it some kind of a holiday? Another National Bees Day or National Hug Day or Flip A Coin Day? Did Dean forget that it’s someone’s birthday today…?

Just when Dean starts wondering when Cas’ birthday actually is and why they have never thought about it before, Cas tilts his head. 

“It’s been eight years, four months, and sixteen days since you went to hell, Dean,” he says, voice flat.

Dean winces. “Shit, Cas, you been counting the days or what?” He looks away from Cas to sip his coffee. The melancholy and heartache at the back of his head tug at him again, something else hidden behind Cas’ words and pensive eyes. 

That’s kind of a random day to remind Dean about his death, isn’t it, though?

“There’s something else, right?” he asks, wary.

Cas nods, small, and points at his own chest with his whole hand.

It takes Dean a few seconds, but then it clicks. 

“Oh,” he murmurs.

Of course. Dean went to hell eight years, four month, and sixteen days ago, and then, four months and sixteen days later, he came back.

“Whoa,” he mutters, his mind full of images of the crooked cross on his own grave and the fallen trees and Bobby’s guarded expression and Sam’s hug and then the barn and the lights and the knife in Cas’ chest. “ _Whoa_.”

“Yes,” Cas says. When Dean looks back up at him, he’s smiling. 

“Dude, we’ve known each other eight years,” Dean says in wonder. Cas nods and keeps smiling. “That’s probably longer than I’ve known anyone except for family.” When Cas looks away to stare at his empty mug, Dean amends quickly, “I mean, you’re family too, Cas. Obviously. You know that.”

“Yes, Dean, I know,” Cas says, exasperated, but he’s _still smiling_. 

The melancholy and the heartache pulse stronger at the sight of him like that, a bubble of quiet happiness and caffeine and terrible bedhead. Dean’s fingertips tingle.

“I stabbed you,” Dean says, apropos of nothing. “That first day. Have I ever apologised for that?”

“No.” Cas’ smile turns into a smirk. “You also shot me, a few times.”

“Crap. Sorry.”

“Don’t be. I didn’t even feel it back then.”

Dean is quiet for a moment. “Eight years. That’s nice.”

“Yes.” 

Cas sneaks a hand towards Dean, whose heart freezes at the motion, and pries the mug out of Dean’s fingers. Dean watches, stunned, as Cas lifts the mug to his lips and sips. Neither of them says anything, and then Cas drops his gaze and shyly pushes the mug back into Dean’s waiting hand. Their fingers touch.

Dean’s body is moving forward before he can process it. 

“Happy anniversary, Cas,” he whispers and throws his arms around Cas in a tight hug. His chin brushes against the skin on Cas’ neck, Cas’ hair tickling his nose.

“Thank you,” Cas murmurs back. Dean feels his hands on his back.

Dean closes his eyes and relaxes into the hug. The melancholy and the heartache shift somehow, but they’re still there, stronger and softer and the same time.

“You’re supposed to say it back,” he says.

“Oh.” Cas fidgets, moves his head, then pressed the side of his face into Dean’s neck. Dean feels his stubble and smiles. “Happy anniversary, Dean. I’m very happy to have you in my life.”

“Hah. Yeah.” Dean is blushing, probably, but who cares. “Ditto.” And then, because it feels incomplete, “Thanks for pulling me out, I think.”

“That,” Cas says and shifts again so that Dean feels his lips move against his own skin, “was the best thing I have ever done in the entirety of my existence.”

“Oh.” Dean can’t help it — he lets his body melt into the hug, into Cas’ strong embrace. Cas’ fingers touch his hair and then push through, sending waves of warmth down Dean’s spine. “That’s—that’s something, I guess.”

“It is,” Cas answers, voice quiet and steady, and then he’s pulling away. Dean’s entire body starts to protest and he opens his mouth to say something and pull Cas back somehow, but then Cas rests his forehead against Dean’s.

Dean’s breath hitches and his eyes snap open. Cas is looking up at him through the mop of his hair and through his lashes and isn’t saying anything. His hand is still tangled into Dean’s hair but then it moves and brushes against Dean’s jaw and his cheek. Dean covers it with his own.

His skin is singing and his heart doesn’t ache anymore. 

It’s his turn to move, he knows that, so he does, tilting his head just a fraction and pressing close, close, closer. Then his lips finally find Cas’ lips and they’re kissing.

The world doesn’t end. Dean has always thought it would.

Cas’ lips are perfect and inexperienced against his, and Dean leads him through their first kiss with a soft press of skin and closed mouth. When they break apart for air, Dean realises his eyes are closed, so he opens them and sees Cas looking up at him with a fire in his eyes. He leans in again and teaches Cas the second kind of kisses, the one with parted lips and gentle breaths shared between them. Cas tastes like coffee and smells like the sun. Their third kiss turns hungrier, all hands and tongues and soft gasps, and by the time they pull away again, Dean can’t breathe.

“I can’t believe it took us eight years to do this,” he croaks.

“I can,” Cas whispers and starts kissing him again.

They break apart when they hear footsteps in the hallway. Sam comes into the kitchen, Mary in tow, and they smile at them as if they can’t see Cas’ reddened lips and fucked up hair. Dean himself can’t stop staring, honestly.

Or maybe they can see it, Dean thinks as Sam sits himself down on the other side of the table, gives them a pointed look, and says, “Happy anniversary, guys.” 

Of course he remembers. Apparently Dean is the only one stupid enough to forget.

Mary stops behind them, leans down, and puts her arms around both Dean’s and Cas’ shoulders. She drops a small kiss against Dean’s cheek, then against Cas’. 

“I was thinking about making apple pie today,” she says with a wide smile. “What do you say?”

Dean gasps happily. “Mom, _yes_.”

His mom smiles at him, then turns to Cas. “What about you? Any special wishes?”

“Burgers,” Cas answers eagerly. 

What a dork. 

“You got it, sweetie,” Mary says.

With Mary busy at the counter and Sam enjoying his coffee and texting furiously with someone — Dean reminds himself to ask how Eileen is, later — Dean catches Cas’ eyes and smiles.

He wants more of it. Eight, eighteen, eighty years more.

When Cas smiles back, Dean knows he’ll get it.


End file.
